


Deep Into That Darkness Peering

by pmonkey816



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Clexa, F/F, I have no words to describe this, Modern AU, but i don't want to give any of it away, just read it and find out i guess?, my attempt at something approaching horror writing (but not really horror? I dunno y'all), supernatural things happening
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 17:52:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5137121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pmonkey816/pseuds/pmonkey816
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every area has them, the monsters designed to rein in disobedient children, the specters that lurk under beds and behind closet doors. The small suburbs outside of Washington, DC are no exception, which is why no one goes into certain parts of the forest at night except for the occasional medium or reckless group of teenagers. Sometimes, they find nothing at all. Sometimes, they're never seen again.</p>
<p>Or, my late probably-too-long-to-be-themed-anyway halloween fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deep Into That Darkness Peering

**Author's Note:**

> i know it's not halloween anymore, but i had this in my mind and didn't see many halloween fics up? so i decided to post this one. it's obviously not finished yet, but it won't probably be a super long fic. anyway, lemme know what you think of it.
> 
> title from The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe

Clarke wakes slowly, with a nagging ache in her shoulders and a throbbing migraine piercing into her skull. She's thankful for the dim lighting, the flickering firelight that paints the walls in shadows, allowing only enough light for her to see what's immediately in front of her. She lets out a little groan—the light hurts despite how dim it is—and moves to push herself up off the ground. She can't, she realizes, and not solely because of the heavy weight of her limbs or the swirling vertigo in her head. No, her arms are bound behind her back, thick ropes digging gashes into her wrists.

 

There's a hand on her arm, hauling her upright so quickly she feels nausea roil heavy and thick in her, and she turns her head away from the stranger holding her arm in reflexive courtesy and empties the acid from her stomach onto the floor.

 

“Are you all right?” A voice she doesn't recognize speaks to her softly, a warm hand brushes the hair sticking to her face away from her eyes.

 

She chances opening them again, blinks until the images in front of her cohere into something sensible instead of a jumble of light and shadow and motion, until the blur turns into a girl, one that can't be much older than her, looking back at her with concern furrowed into her brow.

 

“I've been better.” She says with a laugh more like a breath of relief at the girl's gentleness, at the interest sparking in her eyes. She tears her eyes from the girl, moving slowly so that she doesn't vomit again (now that she knows it isn't one of the people who attacked her, she's glad she didn't throw up on her).

 

They're in some kind of house, built almost entirely of wood from what she can tell: the floors, the walls, the ceiling, punctuated with a window in the center. And it's _dirty_ , with grime and dust clinging to every surface, from the sconces on the walls to the cobwebs in the corners. Her friends aren't there and she's not sure if that's frightening or the best sort of relief. Did they get away? Are they going for help? Are they dead? How long has she even been here?

 

She looks back to the girl, dressed in jeans and an old t-shirt, all of it old and ratty and riddled with rips and tears that expose her skin to the low light and chilly air. She also notices dark stains on the black shirt, near the collar and under the arms. Sweat stains, maybe? Or... She looks down to take in the jeans again and notices the splotches of color there are a deep crimson. Blood. She feels sick again, but manages to suppress the feeling.

 

“Where am I?”

 

The girl's eyes betray the truth even before she speaks again. “Good question.”

 

Clarke swallows, tries to meter the panic inside of her. Her friends aren't here. They got away, they're telling her mom, the entirety of the DC police force is going to come looking for her. And she's not the only one here, either. There's someone else, someone who can help her. “ How long have you been here ?”

 

The girl sucks her lips into her mouth then lets them out slowly. It occurs to Clarke in that moment that she's beautiful. Not in a hey-we're-both-captives-might-as-well-hop-into-bed kind of way, but more in the way one does when they catch the sunrise breaking through the clouds at just the right moment  during their morning commute , the detached way of noticing beauty when it reveals itself,  just because it deserves to be noted .

 

“I can't remember.” The girl looks over her shoulder and Clarke follows her line of vision to the man standing at the door. He's large, with a beard that spills down to his chest in messy curls and tattoos that curve and swirl around his eyes in dark lines. His leather-clad fingers are wrapped around a rifle, and Clarke tightens at the sight of it, fear digging its claws into her skin and dragging ice through it. “Years, maybe?”

 

The girl is looking at her again, her expression gone unreadable now. “I'm sorry.” Is what she says, because what else is there? She wonders if this girl has a family, friends that are missing her, who are still staying up late at night hoping she'll knock on the door and fall into their arms. The girl just nods in response. “I'm Clarke.”

 

“Lexa.” She says, reaches behind her and comes back with a glass of water that she holds up to Clarke with a question in her eyes. Clarke nods and Lexa slowly brings the glass to her lips, tilts it so that she can drink. She hadn't realized just how thirsty she was, but the second the water passes her lips, she finds herself guliping it down, not even bothering to try to pause for air. Her stomach growls, and Clarke feels like a bundle of uncared-for needs, pounding head and wanting stomach and burning lungs and throat aching for more water. She leans her head back, closes her eyes, and wills her body quiet.

 

Lexa brushes a sweat-slick lock of hair away from her face again, and says, “sleep. I'll wake you when they bring food.”

 

Clarke's eyes flutter open, and she smiles. She wasn't sure  before if she  could still be capable of  smiling or not.  She's glad to know she is. “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Kane folds the matchbook back on itself, fits the match between the rough paper and the smooth, and rips it out, the tip of it igniting in a dramatic rush of fire. He brings it up to light his cigarette, inhal ing deeply as he does,  and the cherry flares in the  room dark but for  the glow of his laptop screen. Then, he shakes the match and flicks it toward the trash can. He misses but hey, it's a wood floor, his own house, who could get mad? He turns his attention back to the screen, to the image of a young woman with dark brown hair falling around her cheeks and brushing her shoulders, smiling widely at him. No—at  _her_ , her friend. He clicks the mouse over the play button and leans back to watch as she jumps into animation.

 

“I have on good authority they're a witches' coven.” The brunette says, her giddy anticipation curling something sickening into Kane's gut. There's a laugh from whoever is behind the camera, and when someone else butts in to respond, the camera whizzes sickeningly to rest on him.

 

His hair is long, as well, pushed back, but with some of it coming free during their hike and hanging down around his chin and in his eyes. “No way. Everything I've read says they're a bunch of inbred hillbillies. Like Deliverance or the Hills Have Eyes.”

 

“Right.” Another voice says, and the shaking camera goes to focus on her. “And why are we going out to find them instead of watching those movies from the safety of our own homes, again?” Kane's breath hitches, and he has to pause the video again, take a long drag of his cigarette. Clarke Griffin. Abigail Griffin's daughter. He isn't even a detective anymore, he doesn't need to do field work in his role as police chief, but when your good friend-turned United States Senator asks a favor of you, it's damn near impossible to say no.

 

“I thought you quit smoking.” Callie says as she enters the room, the door clicking softly shut behind her. The cigarette apparently isn't enough to deter her, though, because she settles onto his lap and wraps an affectionate arm around his neck for balance.

 

“I did.” He says, voice flat and grim as his eyes flicker back to Clarke on the screen. “When I quit doing this for a living.”

 

Callie clicks her tongue and shakes her head. “Poor Clarke.” She says softly, then shakes her head again. “Poor Abby.” She leans in to place a kiss to his temple. “Thank you for helping, Marcus. It means a lot.” When that United States Senator is also your girlfriend's best friend, well, any chance of refusal just goes right out the window.

 

It's not that it's not a good case or an interesting one. In fact, when Kane was ten years younger, he'd practically salivated at the opportunity to investigate a crime like this one: a rash of disappearances all happening around the same area, sweeps that turn up nothing but long-abandoned homes and innocent campers in their tents with their families. He'd worked a few cases related to this particular stretch of woods, and turned up nothing every time. He was well-decorated, generally considered one of the best detectives the force had seen, but this one—this one had always led to dead ends. He'd said as much to Callie and Abby but mothers are never willing to give up hope for their children. That he knows far too well.

 

“I just don't want you to be disappointed if I can't find anything.” He mutters, then hits play again.

 

“Because,” the voice behind the camera says, then, “shit, hang on.” The camera turns to face another young woman, ponytail pulled tight behind her head and cocky smirk on her lips, “because where's the fun in that?”

 

The video ends, and Kane sighs. He knows there's a few more, and knows even better it's not a good idea for Callie to see them. He pats her gently on the back. “Go to bed, okay? I'll be there in a minute.”

 

Callie's brow furrows and she looks from him to the black screen and back before leaning in to place a gentle peck to his lips. “Okay.” She stands and starts walking away, pausing with a door on the knob. “Just...” She sighs, and Kane turns to look at her. She has one hand on the handle, the other on her bicep, a lip between her teeth. “You'll tell me if you find anything, right?”

 

“Of course.” It's a lie, he has no right to be sharing details of an investigation with anyone, even the short bit of film she'd watched with him had been somewhat of an overstep, but it's what she needs to hear to sleep soundly that night.

 

She leaves, shutting the door with a soft click behind her, and Kane returns his attention to his laptop, plugging in his headphones and shoving them in his ears. He takes another drag of his cigarette, finds the next video on the thumb drive, and clicks it open.

 

* * *

 

Clarke thinks she's been here several days, but she's not sure, she's been sleeping a lot. She  is  pretty sure,  however, that she has a concussion— not that there's not really much she can do about it  in her current situation . Maybe she'll go to sleep one night and never wake up. Given  the cirumstances , maybe that would be a good thing.  It could be worse , though. After all, every time she wakes, Lexa is there. It's reassuring in an odd way, to have someone else to suffer with. And Lexa isn't the most talkative person—potential years of isolation will do that to someone—but just her presence, the fact that she's not dead or maimed or tortured or any of the other horrible fates Clarke has conjured up in her mind, is a simple comfort. Maybe Clarke will be okay. Maybe she'll be okay long enough for help to come.

 

They've untied Clarke's wrists, leaving  raw, bright red marks burned into them that scream their objection every time she moves her hands or her wrists. Lexa comes forward and kneels in front of Clarke and holds out a hand palm up. Clarke's brow furrows, wondering what it is Lexa is wanting or expecting from her. Perhaps the comfort of a hand in hers? But Lexa doesn't exactly seem the type to need comfort from others—another symptom of her isolation, perhaps. Despite her hesitance, she lifts a hand up and places it gingerly in Lexa's.

 

Lexa's hand is soft, despite being calloused and dry, and Clarke realizes that it wasn't Lexa who needed comfort, it was her. She hadn't realize just how much she missed physical contact with another person. She smiles at Lexa, just as her grip tightens.

 

“They gave me this.” She holds up something in her other hand, a small mortar Clarke hadn't noticed before and her heart begins to race. Is this the game, then? They pit their captives against one another, force them to gain one another's trust then torture each other? She tries to pull back, but Lexa's grip is firm. “It will only hurt for a second.”

 

Something about the confused tilt of her head settles the panic gripping Clarke's chest a little, just enough for words, and she manages to eke out, “what is it?”

 

Lexa shrugs a shoulder, looks down to it with a scrunched nose. “I don't know for certain, medicine of some sort. They used it on me when I first came here.” She sets the small bowl onto the ground and dips a finger into it,  loosening her hold on Clarke's hand enough that she could pull away if she wanted to.

 

Clarke swallows, watching the approach of Lexa's hands warily, her body still screaming at her to run as far away from this “medicine” as she possibly can, screaming at her not to trust this woman she doesn't know more than the name of. “How do you know it's the same thing?” She tries to calm herself further, realizing she has little choice in the matter. The place they're in is filthy, and there's little doubt the raw, scabbing wounds on her wrist will get infected if they're not treated.

 

“Smells the same.” Lexa says, holding her finger up for Clarke to sniff at. She does, and gags at the smell—salt and fish thick and heavy and clinging to the insides of her nostrils.

 

Clarke coughs, trying to breathe through her body's effort to expel any remnant of that scent from her body, and says, “could've warned me it was a  _bad_ smell.”

 

Lexa smiles—softly, tenderly, and it's the first time Clarke's ever seen her do so. It's a good look for her, and it's then that she truly manages to calm herself. Because she's wrong. She may know little about Lexa's life before she came here, but she does know a number of things about her now. She knows that Lexa takes care in small gestures, that she acts more than she speaks, that she's been nothing but helpful and kind to Clarke since she woke up in this hellscape that has become her life. She knows she likes Lexa, she thinks she can trust her, and so she lets her hand go limp (her wrist apparently agrees with her, too, because the tension was shooting near-intolerable pain up her arm).

 

Lexa's right, the sting really isn't so bad, and she can't even really smell it from so far away. Lexa's touch is gentle, running lightly over the wound, coating it in the poultice before grabbing some clean-looking (well, relatively speaking) straps of cloth from the ground next to her and wrapping it around  the wounds and tying it loosely to her wrists.

 

“Thank you.” Clarke says, nearly whispering in the dead quiet of the room, feeling truly grateful for the person she ended up having to suffer this with.

 

The guard, the most glaring reminder of the violence that is sure to come; the full moon that hangs over their heads, bright and unmistakeable and ominous; the testament to the pain and suffering and agony she feels almost certain she's going to endure soon. She's lowering her voice for his sake, so that he can't hear them. He doesn't deserve the tenderness of this moment, doesn't deserve to witness the way Lexa is looking at her with a glow lighting up the pale green of her eyes, the small smile on her face, the flicker of those eyes down for a brief moment before coming back up and winding Clarke with the force of their gaze. Clarke wonders if it's a nervous habit, looking away like  that , or if Lexa had indeed been looking down to her lips.

 

“Lexa.” She says softly, not really sure why, not really sure what she wants to say or whether she wants to say anything at all. Something like 'I've never done this with a woman before,' or like 'we're captives in a shack and this is the absolute last thing we should be thinking about,' or 'god, please kiss me, please help me forget about this terrible, awful place and this terrible, awful situation.' or, maybe, just 'thank you' again, because she doesn't know if she can ever say it enough.

 

Instead of responding, Lexa stands and moves to the window to gaze out at the mountains lingering in the distance, barely visible through the fog and the rain clouds and the thicket of trees by them. Her arms are crossed over her chest, her jaw clamped shut tight,  the skin around her eyes crinkled.

 

And Clarke feels cold, feels the separation like it's something much more tragic than a gentle moment left in tatters.  “Did I upset you?”

 

Lexa swallows and her eyes fall shut and she leans her forehead against the window. “No.” The window fogs up in front of where her mouth is just an inch away from the glass, and reveals fingerprints and streaks.

 

Clarke stands and walks shakily toward her, feeling uncertain about approaching her. Lexa has always come to her before, settled by her side when she wakes to offer some sort of comfort—water or a bit of food, and now medicine. She's never had to do the same for her, and she's not sure how this strange woman will react. She reaches out a hand, slowly so that Lexa can see it coming, can say no or pull away if she needs to, but she doesn't. Lexa just squeezes her eyes tighter in the anticipation and, when the hand finally touches her bare arm just above the elbow, she lets out another shaking breath.

 

“I don't know what's wrong,” Clarke starts, taking another step to be nearer to her, emboldened by how she doesn't move away, “but we're stuck in here together, and,” she moves her thumb, stroking along the skin above Lexa's tricep and leaving goosebumps in her wake, only to smooth over them again a second later, “it'll be easier if you can talk to me.” She leans her shoulder against the window, hopes Lexa will look at her. She doesn't. “You can talk to me, if you want to.”

 

Lexa's eyes flutter open, and Clarke steels herself, gets herself ready for pain, for suffering, for stories of her life back home, of missing her family, of being here, of the things that have been done to her in this place. But instead, her face is completely blank, completely... hard. Stone. Ice. Sculpted into careful disinterest. “There's nothing to talk about.” She moves from the window to go sit against the wall and closes her eyes once again.

 

Clarke takes that as a clear go away sign and claims the wall on the other side of the room. Her head is feeling heavy, anyway, maybe sleeping would be a good idea. Maybe she's imagining all of this anyway. Maybe Lexa was always just fine.  Maybe this whole thing is just a fever dream. She lays down on the floor and props her head up on her folded hands. She can figure it out with Lexa in the morning.

 

* * *

 

The last video is the one Kane finds most disturbing. He's on his fifth cigarette, and it's been nearly an hour since he promised Callie he'd be in bed soon. If it had been his ex-wife, he knows she'd be in here, screaming at him about neglecting her and why does he love his work more than her, and all of those things he chooses not to think about anymore. But because it's Callie, because he's doing her a favor, he knows she's probably already asleep by now. He drags the video back to the one minute mark and lets it start playing. Again.

 

“What's the matter, Clarke?” One of the brunette girls asks.

 

Kane glances down to the file on his lap, the one flipped open, the one with the same face staring impishly back at him. Octavia Blake. Sister of Bellamy Blake, detective. A  decent man , despite being a bit of a loose cannon at times. More reprimands than commendations, but he's a media darling after solving a pretty grizzly high profile  murder a while back, something Kane finds grating. He wishes he could just fire the  pompous ass and get it over with.  But h e knows what Jaha would say: “the camera loves him, Marcus. Just let him look pretty while the rest of you get your job done without all the fuss.”

 

“You scared?” Octavia's tone is taunting, nothing short of absolutely and utterly childish. Although, given the circumstances, he finds it hard to dislike her. Disliking your victims can only make solving their cases more difficult, so he ignores the feeling and tries to focus on the easy way she has about her, the bright determination she brings to everything in these videos, from starting fires to making s'mores to taunting Clarke Griffin.

 

Clarke rolls her eyes, barely lit up by the flashlight pointing right at her face. “No, I'm practical.” She shoves a hand out, and the light flickers away from her, her image disappearing into the blackness. “Raven, get that thing outta my face.”

 

Raven laughs from behind the camera, but—as Kane is beginning to notice is characteristic of her—doesn't relent, instead, swinging the light back to Clarke and making her flinch away from it. “But how else are we supposed to see your beautiful face?”

 

“Oh, my God. Shut up, both of you.” Clarke shoves the light away again, and the two other girls laugh in the background. “Wait. Seriously, you guys. Shut up. I heard it again.”

 

They stop moving, the camera stills almost completely, and they all fall silent. It's quiet, so faint, but Kane can hear it still. A creak. Then nothing.

 

“Fuck, you guys.” Octavia breathes out, and the camera swings to her. “I think the wind is following us.” Then she and Raven burst out into laughter again, and Clarke just rolls her eyes and tromps off into the forest without them.

 

It could've been the wind through the trees, obviously. That's exactly what it sounded like. But with what the rest of the video shows... He leans over to his notepad and jots down some notes. Maybe they move through the trees? But how could they do it without making more noise than that, without shaking the leaves or knocking sticks to the ground, or doing something else that would draw more attention to themselves than just the soft creak of a branch.

 

“Hey, Clarke, c'mon!” Raven calls, and the shaking of the camera intensifies as she and Octavia trot after their friend. “We were just kidding, wait up!”

 

Clarke comes back into the frame less than a minute later, at first just from the flicker of the bouncing flashlight beam, but then when Raven and Octavia notice her and they slow to a walk and draw closer, with more clarity. She's frozen still, not moving an inch, flashlight trained on something right in front of her, obscured by her body.

 

“Clarke?” Octavia asks, breathless, walking into the frame as well. “What's wro—” But then she freezes, too, the flashlight falling from her hands when they move to cover her mouth. Raven is close enough now, to hear just a muffled “Oh, my God” from Octavia and then the camera moves into just the right angle and—

 

Kane pauses the video, takes a screenshot, and leans back in his chair. He glances over at the file on his desk with the boy's name on it. Finn Collins. Deceased. Multiple stab wounds, from the look of it, bound to a tree. Some sort of weird ritual? If it's a group of people who think they're witches, it could be. There's weirder shit that's happened. Like all those kids in the south that want to be vampires and sharpen their teeth and drink cow's blood and eat raw meat. Maybe this is something like that. Or a cult. He runs a hand through his hair, and puts the cigarette out in the cup he's been using as a makeshift ashtray. Whoever they are, whatever they are, they  a re some sadistic motherfuckers. And he's  _going_ to find them and make sure they pay for what they've done. He clicks the video shut and closes his laptop. He's well acquainted with the rest of the video, with the screaming, and then the shadows that swoop in from nowhere, and then the darkness, and then the nothing.

  
And, he has a big day tomorrow. Tomorrow, he talks to the only one who got away.

 


End file.
